


Lavender and Old Spice

by valderys



Category: Life on Mars (UK)
Genre: Episode Tag, F/M, M/M, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Yuletide 2006
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-29
Updated: 2010-07-29
Packaged: 2017-10-10 20:40:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/104040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/valderys/pseuds/valderys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They use 'Lost and Found' for an interview room, and Sam brings in his own tape recorder. What else has to be improvised in 1973?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lavender and Old Spice

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Loz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Loz/gifts).



It feels like a good day, despite the rain on the way to work, and the bloody stupid paperwork, and the way his head still seems to itch despite changing shampoo yet again. Pity no-one in 1973 has ever heard of hypoallergenic. Sam leans away from his desk and tries to stare out of the window, although the glass is smeared in greasy fingerprints, probably the remains of whatever takeaway has been popular for the last few weeks. Fish and chips most likely. But at least it looks like the weather has cleared up.

Sam looks over as clumsy-sounding footsteps indicate that Chris is back in the office. Funny how he always sounds like he's tripping over his own feet, even when he's just walking along. Bit like Sam does mentally sometimes. Trip over himself, that is. Or that's what it feels like here, in this loony-tunes place, in this screwed-up time - when he doesn't feel like beating his head against a brick wall.

Still. Sam likes Chris. He'll be a solid officer one day, if he can only learn to use his initiative. Not that Gene will like that. Can't have too many mavericks in one place - got to have someone who'll follow orders...

Sam smiles to himself as he watches Chris pitch himself down into his chair. It creaks ominously.

"How'd it go then?" Sam asks, for politeness' sake, not that interested, since if something had gone wrong, Chris would be looking a hell of a lot less calm, and terrified besides.

Chris sniffs, and then picks up the paper. "He reckons Blue Violet in the three o'clock at Kempton. Says he's got inside information, but I don't know." His head rises then, like he's remembered something. "Hey, your contact doesn't know, does he? Bloke what gave you the tip for the Grand National?"

"I don't have any inside information," says Sam, patiently. It never helps. He did make decent money on the Grand National, but that's only sensible, isn't it? Since he's stuck here? He may as well make the best of it. Not a lot, just a few bob here and there.

Chris nods and smiles, and taps the side of his nose. "It's all right, boss, I don't blame you keeping schtum."

Sam sighs. It's always the same. No-one ever believes him.

***

 

"Here, you got the signing-in book?" says Phyllis, and leans across the counter, past Annie as she's drinking tea from her very own mug. Yellow and orange flowers, and so much nicer than the institutional green tea cups you get in the canteen.

"It's under the charge sheets, beside the RNLI boat," Annie offers, hiding her smile behind her mug. Against regulations, a cup of tea on duty, but she's about to go out _under cover_, so it's allowed isn't it? Like her being in her own clothes behind the charge desk - sort of not allowed, but no-one's going to bat an eyelid, except to whistle at the shortness of her skirt. And let's face it, when she's off-duty, whistles are what she's after, or she wouldn't have paid a whole _£4.99_ for these knee boots, now would she?

Ok, considering who she's visiting, the get-up's not so sensible, but she's going out after, and she can handle him, dead easy.

Phyllis is still looking for something, and Annie watches her hunt, wondering whether to offer to help. Phyllis doesn't always take kindly to help.

Phyllis makes a satisfied noise and pulls out the timesheet. "I'm going to spring clean this place myself, at this rate. If I waited for the cleaners to pull their fingers out, I'd be up to my armpits in mess. Still, nothing a bit of Dettol and a good sort-through won't cure." She looks over at Annie, her eyes sharp, her voice conciliatory. "You wouldn't swap shifts with me would you, love? Tomorrow?"

"All right," says Annie. It's no skin off her nose.

"Only I want to bring over a shepherd's pie, and that'll give me time to make it."

Annie puts down her mug in surprise. "You're taking him a shepherd's pie?"

"No! Not _him_, I'm not. The pie's for us. We can heat a bit up for our tea. Whoever's there." She sniffs a little and wrinkles her nose. "I expect he can have some though. He'll probably not taste good old-fashioned home cooking again for a good long time."

Annie laughs, and thinks, maybe her short skirt's like the shepherd's pie. A public service really. He'll not see one of those again either - not where he's going.

***

 

"Right then, my beauties," says Gene, rubbing his hands. "Whose round then?"

His eyes gleam as he stares round the table. There is the sing-song sound of a race commentator, from the new telly on the wall. No-one catches his eye, feet would be shuffled if they weren't all pretending very hard not to be there. Sam sighs, and is about to reach for his wallet when Chris curses and looks down.

"Bollocks! So much for Blue Violet - that tip was as useful as a three-legged greyhound." He catches Gene's eye and freezes, a rabbit caught in headlights. Then sighs, and grimaces, before getting up.

"That's right," says Gene, with a certain amount of glee, "Lessons should be paid for - no trusting the tips of scrotes who'd sell their grandmothers soon as look at you."

"Yes, guv," says Chris, dolefully, and Ray smiles.

"Don't look so smug, my lad," says Gene, quick as a whip, "It's your look-out if there's blood up the walls. If things go pear-shaped."

Ray looks unsure and off-balance, and it's a kinder man than Sam who can't take a little bit of satisfaction in that.

"But guv..." Rays says, "It's me Gran's place. She'll carve me up like a Christmas turkey if we even move an ornament."

"Then we'll have to make sure that nothing goes wrong, then, won't we?" Gene looks round significantly, before leaning back in the chair and putting his hands behind his head. "Not a chip to the flying ducks. Not a hair out of place on a shepherdess."

"Better bloody hope Gran doesn't come back early from Blackpool..." mutters Ray.

Sam would despair, if it wasn't so funny.

***

 

Just another girl, heading home after work, that's all I am, thinks Annie, as she swings her handbag. I have to feel the part, because if I feel it, then my body language will make me look it too. She wonders if that was something she learned from her psychology course, or something she's picked up from Sam - she can't remember now. She smiles a bit, thinking of Sam, and the bag swings back again, against her legs. The red skirt feels nice against her skin, much nicer than her WPC uniform, but then that's no surprise. She needs to shave her legs again though.

That Sam. Mad as a hatter, but he's nice too. Most of the time. Funny ideas, but since one of them is listening to her... Well, she's not complaining. That's all.

The click of the gate brings her back to herself, and she nearly blushes, there in the garden, when she realises she hasn't checked for a tail since Acacia Avenue, at least. She stoops to fiddle with the zip on her boot, and stares up and down. Some detective she's making. This is an easy job, and she's almost cocked it up.

She knocks once, then twice more, gently. Sam answers the door, looking pained, but then, when doesn't he?

"All quiet?" she asks, as she pushes past him into the hallway. The house smells of dried flowers and cats, as always. It amazes Annie, that smell. It's like you become old, and then suddenly you smell like lavender, and your house smells of cats. It's enough to give anyone the willies.

"He's all right, but I'm getting fed up playing gin rummy."

Annie laughs. "I'll take you to bingo Saturday, if you like, for a change."

Sam cocks his head, like he's not sure if she's joking. "Is that like me taking you to the pictures?"

"Nah," says Annie, biting her lip to hide her amusement, "My Auntie Ethel would have a heart attack. Bingo's just bingo."

"Oh," says Sam, looking disappointed.

They stand in the narrow hallway, just a little too close together, before Sam recalls he's on his way out. He thrusts something white and damp into her hand as he moves to go.

"What's this then?" Annie asks.

"He spilt his beer and I mopped it up without thinking. Can you wash it for me, Annie?"

His eyes plead with her, as she holds up a white lace doily. She huffs a little, before nodding reluctantly.

"What's wrong?" she calls after him, "Can't you use a twin-tub?"

But she doesn't really expect a reply.

***

 

The night air smells of green algae and alcohol. There's a rock under his bum, but Sam's too tired to get up and move. He's also too pissed, completely rat-arsed, and he smiles up at the sky before bumping his head on the brickwork behind him. There's no sky either, just patterned bricks marching into darkness, although there's sodium light from the road glinting like stars on the water. It ripples when he chucks in a stone, and the waves slop with little staccato sounds against the canal wall.

"Here," says Gene, and passes the bottle. The whisky burns down Sam's throat, and it tastes like victory. It feels as painful and as valuable as that.

"We've done it," Sam says, "We've fucking done it."

"Yes, well, don't start counting your chickens, bird brain. We haven't got him to court yet."

"But we will," says Sam, "Tomorrow."

"Well, I'll give you that. He's still alive, and I expected him to be pushing up the daisies by now. Bereft of life, he rests in peace. Or, more likely having his willy wired to the mains every night in the Other Place."

Gene's voice is harsh, and rumbling. Sam feels it down in his very bones. Which is reassuring in a funny sort of way.

"But we did it," he insists, prodding his finger at Gene with the slow heaviness of the drunk, "All these weeks. With Ray's Gran, and Phyllis' shepherd's pies, and Chris and his rubbish racing tips. We did it."

Sam didn't mean to get this drunk. He never does. He's a bloody lightweight and Gene knows it, so really it's Gene's fault, isn't it? That he can't see straight to say goodbye to her, in this place, this horrible place where she was dumped. Sam wonders how much he'll regret this in the morning.

He doesn't even realise he's sliding sideways until he's resting his nose in Gene's camel-hair coat. There's a smell of stale smoke and Old Spice. Sam breathes it in like he's drowning for the lack.

"Ups-a-daisy, Sammy-boy. It's past your bed time."

But Gene doesn't move him, and Sam stays there, leaning against Gene, the world gently spinning. For once, given what his life's become, it's comforting to know why.

***

 

_ **The Times - 21st May 1973** _

The trial opened today of Stephen Warren, aged 37, the alleged `king of organised crime' operating out of Manchester's Moss Side. Mr Warren is accused of murdering a young woman, Miss Joni Newton, aged 21, in cold blood; slitting her throat when she refused to cooperate in a blackmail scheme designed to entrap an officer of the law. Chief witness for the prosecution is Mr Charles Edwards, aged 39, the alleged crime boss's former right-hand man, who has been held in protective custody since he turned himself in, shortly after the murder...


End file.
